


How Galaxies Collide

by mresundance



Category: Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Cooking, Finn is smitten, M/M, POV Finn (Star Wars), Poe Dameron is kind of not smooth, Poe Dameron is naughty, Poe Dameron/Finn Fluff, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 23:39:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13259022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: Poe enlists Finn's help in the making of a "decent-ish" meal.





	How Galaxies Collide

The last thing on Finn’s mind, as they hurtled through space with the ragged remnants of the Resistance, was food.

The entire Resistance could fit in the Millennium Falcon, which, while not the smallest of ships, was no cruiser by any stretch. It made Finn’s head ache just thinking about it. So did Rose beside him, still not woken. Of course Rose’s state was his fault, and he was thus obligated to stay at her side.

That is, until one X-wing fighter pilot came muscling through the crowds, as they were.

“Finn,” Poe said.

“Huh?” Finn said.

“I need you.”

“What?”

“I need you. Come on.”

“I can’t,” his skin prickled with anxious sweat. “I can’t leave Rose.”

“Let me watch over her, Finn,” General Organa said.

Both men stared at her.

“Oh don’t look at me like that. Now go.”

She shooed them both away. Finn went, reluctantly, thinking Poe wanted him for some kind of heroics. So he followed him, down into some secluded cranny of the Falcon, curled into a little pocket, walls lined with what looked like small storage units. There was even a black square box of some kind on the floor, emitting a faint light. Poe opened the black square and Finn realized it was some kind of refrigeration unit.

“Nothing. Of course not. Typical,” Poe said to the interior of the refrigeration unit.

“Is this some kind of . . . kitchen?” Finn peered into the dimly lit space.

“Yup.”

He pushed the release on one of the shelves and a bin opened up, holding some very abused looking cans of creamed Karellian corn. Another shelving unit had some kind of rice, and still another had protein packets. There were several units of protein packets. This was the kind of slop Finn had eaten his whole life as a Storm Trooper, tasteless and just a little rubbery and runny.

He wondered why Poe had taken him here.

“Well,” Poe said. “We’ll just have to make due. C’mon, we’ve gotta get cookin’ if we expect to feed anyone soon.”

“What?”

“Help me get this open --”

“Again, _what_?”

“We’re cooking a decent-ish meal,” Poe said, putting the vacuum sealed box of condensed banta milk down.

“First: out of this garbage kitchen? Second: with me? Culinary skills aren’t exactly high on a Storm Trooper’s education.”

“Yeah, but Storm Troopers have precision and organization. And I need that right now. Plus, maybe I missed yah, buddy.”

He said this last bit with an absolutely devilish grin and Finn felt his resistance buckle. He could not refuse Poe Dameron now.

Poe made a face and tossed something aside that looked awfully like a claw. He began rifling through units.

“Oh please tell me there are some spices here.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to cook.”

“My uncle taught me,” Poe said from the bowels of a unit. “Besides, it’s always good to know how to cook a decent meal. Warm food in the belly can be the difference between winning and losing a battle.”

Poe climbed onto the countertop.

“When my mother died, eating was important. Kept our spirits up.”

He handed Finn a crate.

“I’m sorry,” Finn said.

“Sorry for what?”

“Your mom.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“I never even knew my mother.”

In the silence that followed Finn kicked himself. Real smooth, Finn. You had to bring up that topic.

“Yahtzee! Spices! Now we can get cooking.”

Poe climbed down from the countertop, holding several packets.

“We’re going to make stew with this mess.”

“We are?” Finn said.

Poe cleaned the counter with something dubious, like engine degreaser, and then they got to work. It was easy enough. Poe would set something in front of Finn and tell him what to do with it.

“Open that.”

“Pierce that.”

“Break that in half.”

Easy.

Until Poe got out a knife -- a real knife of real metal -- and gave it to Finn.

“We don’t have a cutting board, so the counter will just have to do.”

He turned to Finn.

“You’re gonna dice this. It’s really easy. Cut it just like this.”

Poe demonstrated.

“Are you watching?”

“Yeah, I’m watching.”

Watching his nimble fingers sometimes. Most of the time he was focused on Poe’s ridiculously handsome face, his long dark eyelashes, and his warm, expressive eyes.

“Watch your fingers when you’re dicing. It’s fine to go slow. Okay?”

“Okay.”

How hard could it be after the last day?

Finn fumbled with the knife and struggled with his cuts.

“Watch your fingers,” Poe said.

“I _am_ \--”

The Falcon bumped, as it was wont to do, sending half of their ingredients pinwheeling to the floor, and the knife into Finn’s thumb.

“Ow!” Finn said.

“Ah shit, let me see.”

Poe’s hand, warm and calloused, wrapped around his.

“It’s not so bad,” Poe said.

And then he leaned forward and put those beautiful lips to Finn’s thumb, sucking lightly at the cut.

At first Finn had objections, not the least of which was blood borne pathogens, but the heat cascaded through his body and he found himself shuddering.

It was like this for long, long seconds.

Poe broke off.

“Oh shit,” he said, looking distressed. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry Finn.”

“No,” Finn said quickly. “It’s all right.”

The whole ship shook, but that was probably just Finn.

“It’s fine,” Finn insisted.

“It is?” Poe sounded woozy.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Okay. Let’s finish.”

They worked together, with Finn’s bandaged thumb, and then brought battered, steaming bowls of stew up to the Resistance fighters. Poe had been clever enough with the banta milk, a few withered old tubers, and the spices to make it taste like something more than protein glop.

“It’ll do,” Poe declared.

“Poe, it’s great,” Finn said.

“Liar.”

“No, really, it’s good.”

Poe smiled, but said nothing.

Others took turns with dishes and clean up, as it were. The tiny kitchen spaced proved ridiculously hard to clean because it was so small, and the dishwasher was an archaic thing at best. Still, it was accomplished.

Poe and Finn meanwhile sat side by side. Finn knew he should go back to Rose soon.

Poe bit his lip.

“I’m still sorry about earlier, I shouldn’t have just assumed --”

“ _It’s fine_.”

Poe opened his damn mouth, so to shut him up Finn took his hand and kissed it. It smelled hot, of those spices he’d used, and powdery from the banta milk.

Poe was surprisingly still and quiet

Finn let his hand go, but Poe grabbed his again. They held hands for awhile, just waiting together as they drifted through space.

**Author's Note:**

> I figure the Millennium Falcon _has_ to have a kitchen, even if Han was always busy hopping between worlds and having proverbial takeaway. It's just one of those things you couldn't overlook in building a ship like that. Even with lightspeed travel and the like, you still might need to cook a meal out in space from time to time.
> 
> That's my reasoning at least. 
> 
> The title comes from a poem by Sanober Khan:
> 
> “your hand  
> touching mine.  
> this is how  
> galaxies  
> collide.”


End file.
